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  “Oh, I think you will.” The leader turned to the senior prisoner and, with practiced ease, drew a 9mm Makarov from his belt and fired into the kneeling man’s cranium from four meters away. Eighty kilos of dead weight pitched face forward, twitched imperceptibly, and expired.

  The executioner holstered and kicked the second shovel toward the survivor. No words were necessary.

  I can see the hate and the fear in his eyes, the killer told himself. It’s always like this. At least one will always comply.

  The doomed survivor sucked in lungs full of arid Saharan air. He looked upward, saw cumulus clouds in the direction of the Atlas Mountains, and tried to control his bladder. Briefly, he thought of running. But where? Even if he escaped, he was literally in the middle of the desert.

  With trembling hands, he picked up the shovel and began to dig.

  “You see, Etienne? What did I tell you? Some men choose to die on their feet, but most will lick your boots for five more minutes of life.”

  It was longer than five minutes, for the spade man was neither strong nor eager to finish his task. But at length he reached a satisfactory depth. “Enough,” the leader said. He drew the pistol again. “You wish to pray?” They always do.

  The victim merely nodded, lowered his head, and cupped his hands. He mumbled the ancient words, dredged up from a far-off childhood.

  The leader intended for the man to die before the prayer was over—as much a kindness as one could muster at such times. He motioned to the driver, who nodded compliance, raised his own pistol, and began to press the trigger.

  “Let me.” It was the woman.

  The leader waved a hand. “My God, Gabrielle, you’ve seen men die before.”

  She leaned toward him, fists clenched before her. “But I’ve never done it, Marcel! Don’t you understand? I want to know how it feels!”

  Mentally he catalogued the progress of the situation. Her insistence on accompanying the killers; her pledge of silence on the drive, which had mostly been honored. Now, however, he recognized the signs: the little-girl petulance, complete with pouting lips.

  With an eloquent shrug, the leader drew his Russian pistol and handed it to her. He was going to remind her about the safety but she was familiar with the weapon. She raised the pistol in both hands, flipped the lever, took two seconds to align the sights, and three more to press the double-action trigger.

  The 9mm round spat out, impacted the supplicant’s left temple, and he collapsed into the hole he had dug.

  She decocked the weapon and handed it back, butt first. The owner changed magazines and holstered it, faintly shaking his head.

  “What?” she demanded.

  He leveled his brown eyes at her baby blues. “Curiosity satisfied?”

  “It’s nothing.” She shrugged as unconcernedly as possible and reached for a cigarette. She almost managed to suppress the tremor in her hand.

  “Congratulations, my dear. Welcome to the club.” He picked up both shovels and handed one to her. “Now you can help bury them.”

  * * *

  Two hundred thirty meters away, partially concealed by a low-lying dune, two men watched the proceedings through precision optics. An observant bypasser would have pegged them in their thirties, though neither’s face was visible. One had draped a sand-colored veil over his head to break up his outline and shield his Zeiss 8×25 binoculars. The other wore a white kaffia with a black diamond design while looking through a ten-power Hensoldt rifle scope.

  Both had light-colored Saharan robes over French and Italian military fatigues, and both wore Israeli Army desert boots.

  The observer carried a Romanian AKM with Egyptian ammunition. His partner had a British AWC sniper system with an integral suppressor on the barrel. It was loaded with match-grade 7.62×51 manufactured in America.

  The mythical observer would have noted that both appeared accustomed to the desert.

  When the executioners were finished with their chore, they climbed into their vintage Land Rover and drove off, leaving their handiwork buried in the lee of a dune. The distant witnesses watched them go, headed south across the Mourdi Depression toward Oasis Fada.

  In their native tongue the two men discussed their options.

  The sniper asked, “Should we check the bodies for papers?”

  The leader thought for a moment. “No. No point. Any additional information probably isn’t worth the risk of being seen. Besides, with the homer attached to the Land Rover we can track the Frenchmen wherever they go.” He put his compact Zeiss in its case and consulted his map: Libya lay 165 kilometers to the north. “We’ll walk back to the helicopter and have David call ahead for a jet. I want to be in N’Djamena before tomorrow morning.”

  4

  SSI OFFICES

  Frank Leopole was the last to arrive. He shut the door of the conference room and took the last vacant chair. The SSI brain trust seldom met in full session for other than monthly planning sessions, so the secure facility usually had room left over.

  This time was different.

  Seated at the head of the polished table, retired Rear Admiral Michael Derringer nodded to Lieutenant Colonel Leopole. The former Marine returned the gesture, taking in the audience. Besides Derringer and himself, Leopole counted five men and four women, including all the heavies. He saw that Derringer’s personal secretary, Peggy Singer, was taking the minutes. That fact was not lost upon the head of SSI’s operations division.

  As chairman of the board, Derringer presided at the meeting. He glanced at his Rolex and saw the sweep hand tick through the twelve. The old radio call from his fleet days swam upward to surface in his consciousness: Chocktaw, this is Jehovah. Stand by … execute!

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for all being here on such short notice. The subject of this meeting is important enough to call a special session because we’ll need a consensus to present to the board of directors next week.”

  Seated to Derringer’s right was George Ferraro, SSI’s vice president and chief financial officer. To Derringer’s left was Marshall Wilmont, president and chief operating officer, looking haggard as ever. Leopole had no trouble reading the lay of the land: Wilmont occasionally attended planning meetings; Ferraro almost never. They were big-picture men, far more concerned with corporate policy and finances. In the argot of the trade they were bottom-line oriented.

  Dominating the atmosphere in the room was the forbidding presence of Lieutenant General Thomas Jackson Varlowe, U.S. Army (Retired). Though retired nearly a decade, he still seemed to wear three stars on his starched collar. Leopole was barely acquainted with him but knew him as one of those generals who never quite adjusted to retirement—sometimes Varlowe even had to open doors for himself. However, he was astute and connected, and for those reasons Derringer had courted him as chairman of SSI’s advisory board.

  Leopole’s reverie was broken as Derringer spoke again. “We have been approached by the State Department for a potentially lucrative contract. It involves training in Africa, which is why I’ve asked our training and foreign operations officers to attend.” He inclined his head toward Leopole, who ran operations; former Lieutenant Colonel Sandra Carmichael of international operations; and Dr. Omar Mohammed, the Iranian-born director of training.

  “The situation is this: over the past several months the government of Chad has received United Nations assistance with improving internal security against rebel factions that have caused widespread problems. As most of you know, the original U.N. mission there was peacekeeping, officially a neutral presence more intended to keep the warring factions apart than actually solving anything.” Derringer allowed himself an ironic grin. No one in the room had the least difficulty interpreting his meaning. The United Nations was not one of Michael Derringer’s favored causes.

  “Well, over the past couple of weeks the peacekeepers took some hard knocks. Both the rebels and elements of the Chadian Army resented their presence, and there were several disputes leading to
violence. Some peacekeepers were killed and others were surrounded and captured.”

  Ferraro, ever mindful of the cost-benefit ratio, asked the pending question. “Mike, are we thinking of getting involved in Chad?”

  Derringer cleared his throat and nodded slightly. “I got a call from O’Connor at State. The secretary has authorized a PMC for a short-term contract to train a unit of the Chadian Army in counterinsurgency. We’re the go-to company for projects that the State Department wants kept below the horizon. That especially applies to Chad.”

  “How’s that?” Ferraro asked.

  Derringer shifted in his seat, a sign of unusual nervousness. “Well, I did some checking. It turns out that a European watchdog group keeps track of corruption and human rights violations around the world. Chad and Ethiopia are tied for the dubious honor of the most corrupt government on earth.”

  Marshall Wilmont was visibly perplexed. “I don’t understand something. Why would State, and presumably the entire U.S. Government, want to support Chad? Something doesn’t fit.”

  “Well, you’re right, Marsh. I haven’t told the whole story yet.” He paused for emphasis. Looking at each person in sequence, he said, “Everything said here, stays here. Is that absolutely clear?”

  Heads bobbed to the accompanying litany, “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. There’s some high-level horse trading going on because the U.N. is anxious to save itself more embarrassment. The French have agreed to send a replacement peacekeeping force operating with the appearance of U.N. authority but in fact they’ll answer to Paris, not New York. In exchange, our State Department will sign off on a PMC to conduct some of the training.”

  Ferraro began to interject. “Mike, I think…”

  With a raised hand, Derringer interrupted him. “I know where you’re going. Everybody just hold on until I’ve finished.” He glanced down at his notes and continued. “You’re wondering why France is interested in bailing out the U.N. Well, there’s a couple of reasons. Chad is a former French possession and therefore is still regarded as within France’s sphere of interest. There are also certain, ah, resources in the country that could prove valuable.

  “Beyond that, Prime Minister LeBlanc is a Gaullist at heart. He and his cabinet want to increase French prestige, and by volunteering for an apparently humanitarian program, his government figures to score some points. My guess is, they plan to leverage the goodwill in Africa and the Third World generally. That’s likely to translate to more influence, wider markets, and a counterbalance to other powers.”

  “Like us,” Wilmont opined.

  “Exactly,” Derringer said.

  Leopole raised a hand. “Admiral, if the French are going to replace the peacekeepers, why does the U.N. want an American firm involved?”

  “Actually, the U.N. doesn’t. At least that’s what O’Connor said, and he’s a big U.N. booster. But in exchange for American support on the Security Council, the administration requires a PMC to be involved. That’s where the horse trading comes in. State wants an American presence in Chad, especially during the transition period while the French are taking over.”

  The former Marine nodded his crew-cut head. “Gotcha.” He shrugged. “Well, I don’t see any reason we can’t do it.” He looked at Omar Mohammed. “If it’s going to be a training mission, how long will we plan for?”

  “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Certainly our operations and training departments will have to coordinate SSI activities, but the main reason I called this meeting is brainstorming. Before we start planning for Chad, I need to hear arguments pro and con. What do each of you want the board to consider?” He nodded at Leopole again.

  “Yes, sir. As far as operations are concerned, we shouldn’t have much problem. A training cadre would be fairly small, and we don’t have any heavy commitments other than the Peruvian contract. I’ll need to huddle with Matt Finch but finding enough personnel won’t be much trouble, depending on specifics.”

  Derringer looked at Mohammed. “Omar? Any thoughts on training?”

  “Yes, just a couple.” Mohammed rubbed his manicured goatee, gathering his thoughts. Though he spoke almost unaccented English, he used such moments to give the impression he was considering his words. “The biggest consideration will be linguistic. Chad has two official languages: Arabic and French, and finding enough instructors competent in either may be difficult. It’s possible to work through translators, but that is inefficient. And it limits the bonding between teachers and students.”

  “Okay, that makes sense,” Derringer replied. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, this matter of counterinsurgency. Certainly we can provide qualified instructors, but let us be frank. I suspect that the Chadian Army does not have anything resembling an elite unit. From what I know of the situation, the Army and police answer only to the president, who buys their loyalty with favors and by looking the other way when they abuse the population.”

  Derringer sat back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table. “That’s undoubtedly an accurate statement. But since State is pushing the program and offered it to us, I think we should consider it.”

  “Well, sir, I am merely saying that, assuming we take the contract, we need to say exactly what we can deliver. We cannot turn an armed mob into a competent counterguerrilla force in a few months.” He turned a manicured hand palm upward. “If we are going to do a decent job, we may be there for a year or more.”

  Derringer gave an ironic smile. “I think that’s what the secretary has in mind.”

  Mohammed’s dark eyes widened in comprehension. “Ah, I see. The French connection, so to speak.”

  Derringer turned toward Sandra Carmichael. “Sandy, overseas operations are your department. Do you have anything beyond Frank’s general ops comments?”

  The honey blond retiree had scribbled a few notes during the discussion. “No, sir. As Frank and Omar said, the main concern is signing up the right people. I can think of two or three good men offhand. For the others, we’ll have to dig around.”

  “Very well. Regina, most of our training contracts are pretty low budget. Any reason to think this would be any different?”

  Regina Wells, Leopole’s operations assistant, kept her professional hand on the department’s financial pulse. “No, sir. It should be a cost-effective job. Especially if it lasts more than a year. I’m assuming we’d pass along the bonus fees to the client?”

  Derringer raised an eyebrow and cocked his head toward Ferraro, the chief financial officer. “George?”

  “Well, naturally I’d consult with Ms. Pilong, but SSI policy has always been to add long-term and hardship bonuses to the base fee. The only exceptions have been projects where we wanted to break into a particular market. Besides, I’d think that State would be glad to cover the extra fees. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been offered the job.”

  In turn, Derringer swiveled his chair and looked at Corin Pilong, SSI’s legal director. She was deceptively demure: a five-foot-three Filipina with a baby-doll face and a Harvard law degree.

  She leaned forward on both elbows, a sure sign that an argument was coming. “Admiral, I am not concerned with contractual matters just now. Everything we have heard so far appears proper and aboveboard. But I must say, I am not in favor of this contract.”

  No surprise there, Derringer told himself. He knew Corin Pilong as a donor to humanitarian causes who sometimes considered herself a rare bird in a nest of knuckle-dragging trigger men. “Please elaborate,” he said.

  “We have already noted Chad’s terrible human rights record. That bothers me. I would not want to be smeared by association with so corrupt a regime. Beyond that, what guarantees do we have that our training will not be turned against the civilians of Chad?”

  Derringer shrugged. “No foolproof guarantees, of course. But if our training is limited to counterinsurgency…” He looked to Mohammed.

  “Quite right,” the training officer interjected. “The tec
hniques we would provide are not very applicable to police or civil concerns.” He looked across the table at Pilong. “Frankly, nobody needs any training to beat up political opponents or blackmail people into compliance. From what I’ve heard, the Chadians already have plenty of experience in those areas.”

  “Well, maybe so,” Pilong responded. “I’ll take your word for that, Doctor. But I’m also an advocate for this company. What about our reputation? Hasn’t it occurred to anybody that the government wants a PMC to do its dirty work so the military doesn’t get the blame?”

  Derringer nodded vigorously. “That is exactly the reason I called this meeting. It’s also why I invoked extreme secrecy at this point. I’d be remiss if I didn’t consider all aspects, the potential benefits against the risks. So I think that Corin is asking the right questions—the same questions that our board will raise.”

  After a moment the CEO shoved back from the table. “Very well. I’ll have your comments summarized for distribution at the board meeting. Thank you, everyone.”

  In the hall, Leopole and Carmichael stopped at the water fountain. “What d’you think?” he asked.

  She winked. “It’s a go, Frank. I understand Corin’s viewpoint, but I’d bet next month’s retirement check that the board will approve.”

  He nodded. “Concur. I could practically hear Ferraro’s gears crunching the numbers. This is a low-cost, high-return project.”

  “There’s just one thing,” Carmichael said. “Through that whole meeting, General Varlowe didn’t utter one syllable. Isn’t that odd? I mean, he’s head of the advisory board. The admiral didn’t even ask him what he thought.”

  “Yeah, I know. That means they both want to take the contract.”

  5

  SSI OFFICES

  “The meeting will come to order.”

  Derringer convened the board of directors the morning after his meeting with SSI’s department heads. Mrs. Springer noted the attendees and double-checked each item on the agenda. Thomas Varlowe represented the advisory board, though he was entered in the minutes as Lieutenant General Varlowe.